Something Fishy?

I've gotten a few comments and e-mails asking: What's up with Ilaiy's fish? Here's the scoop:

Ilaiy bought a little oscar about 6 years ago. In that time, the fish has grown from 2 inches to 14 inches long.

Ilaiy got a job in San Jose, CA, and, though he considered selling the fish, decided he couldn't part with it. He would overnight the fish, hop on a plane, and beat the fish to CA. He'd be waiting with a temporary aquarium when the fish was delivered.

He got explicit fish-shipping instructions from the U.S. Postal service a few weeks before he left.

The morning he left, he had the fish professionally packed at Sailfin, a local store specializing in fish and aquariums. Clean water with special chemicals, in a heavy plastic bag, in a foam core, in a cardboard box, and proper "Live Fish" markings.

When he got to the post office, however, the postal clerk said "we need 2 days notice to ship a fish."

Ilaiy noted that no one had told him that when he'd come in for instructions.

The guy then said, "sorry, it's the 4th of July weekend."

It was the 29th of June.

The guy then said, "I see water on the corner of this box."

Ilaiy explained that the fish had been flipping around wildly when they packed it, but that it had been professionally packed per their specifications, and was not leaking; the wet spot would dry out and be fine.

"Go and repack it."

Ilaiy went BACK to Sailfin, where the staff transferred the fish bag/core into a completely dry box, remarked it, re-addressed it. Their usual fee for this is $65; they charged him nothing.

Ilaiy drove back to the post office.

"Your American Express card is denied." The guy told him. Ilaiy asked him to try it again. "Denied again."

Ilaiy gave the guy his debit card.

"I can't take this card, there's no signature," the guy told him. Ilaiy pointed out that it's a debit card, he has a PIN number.

Ilaiy paid $110 to ship the fish, and the clerk called after him, "If I see one drop of water, I'm calling you!!!"

Ilaiy left the post office, and phoned American Express immediately; they told him that there had been no attempt of a transaction that morning.

That was the morning of June 29.

Today is July 8. The fish has disappeared. It is not in California. It is not in Champaign. The postal service doesn't seem to be able to track it to or from anywhere. They have NO IDEA where it is.

Ilaiy is in a new city, staying in corporate housing while he looks for an apartment before starting a new job. He's been running back home every few hours to check the mail for the last week. He is stressed, saddened, and freaked out at the prospect at what may now show up at his doorstep.

And we are sickened at what may have panned out here. That postal clerk: WAS he just following orders, or was he harassing Ilaiy? Was everyone with an overnight package given that much grief on June 29, due to the holiday? Why would they even accept them if it's going to be impossible to ship it?

After hearing of all he went through that morning, I insisted that we return to the post office, before he flew out, to take down some names. We did get the name of the clerk that gave him such a hard time, his manager's name, and the name of the Postmaster that runs the Mattis Avenue post office.

I have a feeling it will do no good.

:-(

Windows Saga: Cont'd from last November

Ooo, people, I finally got my windows fixed, about a month ago. My conflict with Midstate Siding and Windows last November went nowhere. I sealed the windows with plastic for the winter, and had to wait for consecutive 50-degree days in the spring (so caulk could set up) before getting at the end of my handyman's waiting list. Now, 6 months after discovering that Midstate left gaping holes around 11 sunroom windows, they are all fixed up and beautiful. At my expense, of course. Midstate never even came out to look at the windows.

Since I had all final expenses documented, I gathered together my contracts, scratch papers, sales notes, and records of every phone call and email, along with the photos, and sent the lot off to the Better Business Bureau in Peoria, and to the Attorney General.

I've received form letters from both, acknowledging my transmittals, and this morning the Attorney General's office phoned me with a few questions. They are forwarding my "packet" to Midstate.

So, I wait, chewing my nails and mentally preparing for a telephone call and verbal onslaught from the sales manager that belittled me into the ground in an attempt to make me go away the first time.

My imagination runs amok.

If you notice any unexplained absences here, please notify the authorities.

Thank you very much.

Got Mammograms?

Look what I did this morning:

For all of you boys out there that don't know what that is, that's the machine they use to administer a mammogram.

For all of you girls out there, over the age of 40, that don't know what it is, well, get ye into the doctor's office!

Here are some boring statistics from the Breast Cancer site:

Each year, 182,000 women are diagnosed with breast cancer and 43,300 die. One woman in eight either has or will develop breast cancer in her lifetime. In addition, 1,600 men will be diagnosed with breast cancer and 400 will die this year.

If detected early, the five-year survival rate exceeds 95%. Mammograms are among the best early detection methods, yet 13 million U.S. women 40 years of age or older have never had a mammogram.

If you're 40 or older, you need to have a mammogram at least every 2 years, though many doctors recommend an annual exam. If you there's a history of breast cancer in your family, you need to start getting checked out in your 30s. My first was when I was 35.

I have so many friends and acquaintances that fear or avoid this test. Ladies, if that's you, if you're avoiding it because you're afraid that it will be painful, then don't be. There's just nothing to be afraid of.

Yes, they're going to take you in there and pancake your breasts side-ways once, and then up and down-ways. It is vaguely uncomfortable, and if you're more tender than the rest of us, then it might be a little painful.

A LITTLE painful. You're not going to scream or cry. The squooshing procedure takes less than 15 seconds. And then the discomfort is over, and you get to go your merry way.

If you're a timid one, ask for a female technician. Keep in mind that she's flopping and squishing and touching boobs all day long, and she is not going to care how big or small yours are, and she's not going to think they're funny, or weird or amazing. She's only going to care that they're healthy, and that there's nothing going on inside that might kill you.

If you're indifferent or unconcerned, just think about those statistics again. 1 in 8!! You have 7 coworkers? 7 women that show up at a family function? 7 friends? Line up with any of the 7, and you're number 8.

Just do it. Do it for yourself. Do it for your family, your kids. Do it for your friends. If this hasn't moved you, do it as one little favor for me.

I'll never ask you to do anything again.

They're baaaa-ack

Those little devil japanese beetles are back in full force, ticking off of our windshields, crawling into our windows, getting caught in our hair. Look what they're doing to my tree:

They are everywhere. No offense to God or anything, but he could have at least made them edible.

Then my Beetle Bounty would be a wonderful gift, just imagine it! I would pick buckets of them off the tree, and cook them into a delicious syrup and serve them on angel food cake.

Dare you to come over for dessert.

Trampoline Tramps

The last you heard from me, I was on my way to have dinner with Lori's mom, Jean. I was so excited that I called Lori, in LA, to flaunt it: "Guess what, I'm having dinner with yo mamma tonight!"
She was thrilled to hear it! She told me that her boyfriend and his daughter [who happen to live here] would also be there for the family reunion. Great! I'd look forward to seeing them!

We talked another half hour, and she mentioned getting in late last night. She works about a million hours a day, and as I was readying to chide her for working so late on the Saturday night of a holiday weekend, it hit me..."WHERE are you?" "I'm HERE! I'm in Champaign!"

All kinds of squealing and screaming ensued. I had no idea she was here! We've both been busy, and it was probably mentioned at some point, but had slipped my mind. Everyone else involved had assumed I was in the know.

Yay, cookout at the Mason Estate! Menu: Burgers, brats, and corn on the cob on the grill!



Mama Jean checks the corn. Is it done? "Take a bite" she said. I did, and we put it back on the grill for a little while. As luck would have it, I ended up with the piece I'd gnawed on.



Dad supervises the hose with grand-daughter and great grandson...



While grandson sits behind and runs the controls.



The neighbors were kind enough to let us play on their trampoline for the evening. After dinner, Lori and I took our first-ever shots at trampolining. I'm not saying nuthin' about nuthin', but that girl doesn't navigate that well on land. Check out this hilarious video, when brother Randy bounces her off-balance:



Har, har, doesn't that crack you up? I handed over the camera and got in to show her how it's done. Look how graceful I am! Clearly, good trampolining is all about flapping your arms just so:



Lordy, we had fun, playing and working up a sweat much as we did back in 1973.

And the day was sweeter still, as this was Pops, less than one month ago:


Yep. Emergency open-heart surgery 22 days before this picnic. He had been participating in a senior citizen's physical fitness program at a local hospital, when doctors, alarmed over test results, stopped him immediately to whisk him off for surgery. He initially refused, saying he felt just fine, but Mama Jean tightened the thumbscrews—and turned on the waterworks—and convinced him to go through with it. Go Mama, go!

So, even more thankful we were, then, to be celebrating, eating, and mindlessly jumping around like idiots on Sunday evening.

Life is good.

July 1 Market Report

Basil! Basil in abundance is my favorite thing about the farmer's market. This entire bunch at the market costed me only $2. A lot better than grocery store prices upward of $3 for a few sorry, often moldy sprigs crammed into a crappy plastic container.

It is now basil pesto. I froze the first batch of the summer in an spare ice cube tray, will pop them out today, bag them up, and have homemade pesto on hand for months to come.

I'll be making more pesto before summer's out. And basil fried rice. And I'll tie 2 or 3 bunches up with twine, hang them in the sunroom window til they're dry and crunchy, and later, crush them in mortar and pestle. I'll be set for great dishes until next summer.

In other market news, Corn's in! Come 'n get it! "Knee-high by the 4th of July," they used to say, back in the day. That must surely have been when they were using man and horse-drawn plow to work their fields. I imagine it took them a bit longer to finish planting back then.



Sour cherry season! When I was a little kid, when Mom asked me which birthday cake I wanted, each year I asked for cherry pie. "Birthday Pie it is then!" Mom declared. It's still my favorite, and I make a mean one (with store bought crust).


It was a scorcher yesterday, 93 degrees outside. This guy seemed to be keeping relatively cool, despite his fur coat:



Floral booths were gorgeous at always, I found these bouquets-in-a-mason-jar quite charming:


Zinnia's were stunning:


Most exciting, someone tapped my shoulder, and I turned around to yell, "Mama!" and before my eyes, my best-friend-my-entire-life's mother popped up right behind her! "Two Mama's!!!" I squealed! They'd bumped into one another, and set out to find me, when my sister told them she knew I was there. Lori's brother, Dennis, was also there, visiting from Texas! It's a reunion!! yay!

That's my mother on the right. On the left is Lori's mother, Jean. After meeting Lori and her family when we were 10 years old, I spent practically equal time in Jean's house as I did my own.

I write this on a Sunday morning. After I hit "Publish Post" I will go pick up my mother for lunch and some shopping.

Then this evening then, I am having dinner at Jean's house, with Lori's family.

Two Mama's indeed.

He vs. She

At last week's party, we amused ourselves with this comparison:

LORI THROWS A DINNER PARTY FOR 15 ON A FRIDAY NIGHT:

Monday: Make menu, grocery list, clean house.

Tuesday: Mow and trim yard, buy pretty flower baskets, clean the house.

Wednesday: Clean the house.

Thursday: Take the afternoon off. Shop for ingredients. Clean the house. Start the chopping and cooking.

Friday: Leave work 2 hours early, get home, beautify myself, clean the house, start more cooking, make friends come early to set up awnings and tables.

Everyone has a great time.

ILAIY THROWS A DINNER PARTY FOR 15 ON A FRIDAY NIGHT:

Friday: Work until 5, go out to the coffee shop and socialize til 6:30.

7:00 guests arrive.

8:00 Open freezer door and think about what to cook tonight.

10:30 Dinner to die for is ready.

Everyone has a great time.

He's Leavin...

...on a jet...Harleyyyy


Well, we did it, we put that boy Ilaiy on a plane tonight, for San Jose, CA. He's been so much a part of my life, and of our lives, that I just can't not acknowledge it.

My kneejerk reaction is to hurry and tell you about this wonderful friendship, and how we met (I offered him a seat at my dry cafe table (under an awning) during a thunderstorm (we said "h'lo" for months before saying more); and who he introduced me to (Marcy and Mike and Atef and about 100 more that are drawn to him).

And for some reason I think you should know how special this guy is. He was sounding board when my son and I fought. The weekend that I found out that my mother had Alzheimer's, he checked in when I was paralyzed with grief, and, when I was bouncing off the walls, talked with me at an outdoor cafe until 3 a.m., until I knew I could only go home and sleep.

We had a few childish arguments, one while he was dropping me off at my car, in a parking lot. I slammed his car door and stormed off in a huff. He, in turn, parked his car behind mine, blocking me in. I rolled my window down just enough to put my lips out and threaten to open a can of Monster Truck Whoop-ass on his car. He knew I was bluffing, and stood there calmly rapping his knuckles on the roof of my car, driving me nuts and refusing to let me go, until we'd talked it out.

We have otherwise laughed. And laughed. And laughed some more.

And I wanted to tell you all of these things, but then I thought, "Oh, for chrissakes, Lori, he's MOVING, he's not DEAD!"

And all that other stuff sounded too much like a memorial, so I decided that maybe I should just zip it...

...and instead...

...choose to dance.

Because I have a lifelong friend. He's going to thrive in his dream job. Because he will visit us, and we him. Because I love his family, and they me, and us.

And we will continue to

Laugh.

Photo of the kid

Some of you have already seen this picture in the mass e-mailing I did about 2 seconds after I had it in my grubby little hands. Sorry for the duplication, I'll throw in some new and improved notes along with what you already know.

There's my kid! My first Brian-siting since this was taken! There he is (on the right), yayyyy!

Coincidentally, his father (J) teaches a few courses at Fort Leonard Wood now and again. He had to go down there this weekend, and he and Bri's stepmom (M) got to spend about 45 minutes with Brian on Saturday afternoon.

I was helping Ilaiy shop (for t-shirts, what else?) when J&M called to give me the report on Brian. He looked so great, he's doing very well, and seems happy there. They would meet him again for church the next morning.

I have a confession to make.

I am rarely jealous. In fact, I can't really think of a time when I've envied another person, let alone harbor ill will against them for something they have and I don't. But while I smiled through hearing how great my kid is doing, it took all I had not to smash my cel phone on the floor, and follow this little kid's lead:


I admit it. For a split second there, I wanted to throw myself on the ground and kick and scream, "how come YOU get to see him? You get all the good stuff! Everything happens to me! No FAIR!"

But I didn't. I teared up, but knocked it off soon enough to beg for copies of photos.

And when J stopped by my workplace yesterday, I hadn't a shred of jealousy left, but mere gratitude for his kindness, for thinking of me, and knowing how bad I wanted to see those pictures. I wanted to pick him up and swing him around in a big hug, while he gleefully told me all he got to talk about with Brian. I want to hear everything, as usual.

He is going to Fort Benning, GA next. It is his station for 4 years, but there is, of course, no guarantee that he'll stay there.

The other guy in the pic is one of his best friends, "Hall." I talked to Brian last night, and he told me some about the young man he's pictured with. He said "our faces and hands are tan, but the rest of us shiny white."

They wear this garb all day long, sleeves and all, in near-100-deg. heat, doing push-ups in the sun, at 1:00 in the afternoon. He has 4 sets of this uniform, laundry goes out Tues and Thursday.

His friend Hall is leaving the day of graduation, going to desert training, and, after a brief stay with his family, is stationed in Iraq. Knowing this, that photo becomes even more bittersweet. I am nauseous, and scared for his family, and guilty about my own dumb luck. I pray for a big happy reunion 4 years from now, with his family and ours. I pray for comfort for his mother and father, and safety in his own life.

And for an end to this war, ohhh, for an end to it.

Taste Too

My previous post sure was grumbly, wasn't it? I meant every word of it, this is true.

But I actually left the festival smiling. While we sat on the grass with our water and cold chicken, I observed this woman nearby:



And I realized:

SHE is at the same festival that I am at, at the very same time. She has trudged through the same crowd, the same chaos. I see that she has a meal with her, and is probably also waiting for friends. Hence, she waited in the same lines.

And SHE is dancing, while I grumble.

And we make choices about our perceptions and our reactions.

And hers is SO much better than mine was.

I will remind myself: Lori, choose to dance.

Taste of Champaign

We met at the coffee shop Saturday night, and decided to mosey on over to the Taste of Champaign. I somehow remember this festival being better in years past.


The crowds were dizzying, and the lines very long. That's fine; it's a festival! However, I go to a lot of festivals that support large crowds and I rarely to see this kind of chaos. The food booths are so close together that the line from one often ran into another. Meanwhile, the corners of the park were all lawn, empty of vendors, tents, or picnic tables. Can't they better utilize the space in the park to give the vendors and spectators a little breathing space?

There were 25 food vendors. Hasn't there been nearly twice that in years past, or am I remembering childhood Christmases? So many of my favorites were missing—where was Seaboat?! There seemed to be little of substance: Lots of pizza, sno-cones, and ice cream bars, and even the prices on these were exorbitant.

Several of the vendors were out of inventory. Why do so many come unprepared for the main meal (It's Saturday Night!) of the festival? Marcy ended up settling for pizza, paying $3 for a sample slice at Garcia's (NOT a true Garcia's slice!), and finding only breakfast (egg and bacon) pizza left over at One World. Yuk.

Everything we intended to try was unavailable. We split up then, two of us for gyros, one for pizza, and one for thai samplings.

Mike ordered chicken satay at Siam Terrace, and sat down to bite into icy, raw chicken:


Ugh; we had tickets left, but by then, no appetite.

While I'm at it, who in the heck can afford to take their kids to this festival?!! There's a kiddy-land in one corner, with those inflatable slides and jumpy things. 1 ticket for one ride. That's ONE DOLLAR to slide down a pillow. Pony rides were $4 each, and they were charging $2 a pop to pet a goat and a rabbit in the "petting zoo."

I know all of the proceeds for this event went to charity; is that why the prices were outrageous?

Still, it is touted as a festival, not a fundraiser. People don't show up to Taste of Champaign with a cause in mind. I'd venture the majority aren't even aware that there is a cause. People come out for good food, good music, and a good time—for a reasonable price. A couple feeding 2 kids couldn't have gotten out of there for less than $100, if everyone was to go home satiated and entertained.

Seriously, who wants to pay more to get a taste of something than it would cost to sit down in the restaurant? Marcy spent $5 on a slice and a bottle of water. For $2 more, she could have walked to The Esquire and had a great pizza. And a glass of water.

The restauranteurs may be "donating" all of the proceeds, but it still seems like they would also only stand to profit if the prices were lower. More people would be able to afford to taste their snacks, and stop in for a full meal at a later date.

We spent $30 on pizza, raw chicken, a few miscellaneous bites and bottled water (to use up our non-refundable tickets). We were grouchy and hungry, and ended up going to Merry Ann's Diner around midnight for a cheeseburger.

I may stroll through next year, to see if they have cleaned up their act. But I won't expect much, and I'll make alternate dinner plans up front. I think I've eaten my last Taste of C-U meal.

Saturday's Market Report

The market report is: I didn't go to the market this week. I was, instead, trying to wake up and tackle this mess:


Don't you love it? We had a going-away party for Ilaiy Friday night. He's a pretty laidback guy with an extensive (300+) t-shirt collection, so we all wore wacky t-shirts, if we had 'em, in his honor:


Looking at someone else's party pix may bore you to death, but we had such a good time, I have to share. And our friends might be peeking in for photos also.

We had a Mexican-style cookout with gobs and gobs of food (pork in tomatillo sauce, chorizo, chicken, and hot sausages) and margaritas (fresh peaches, strawberries, and melon), and great friends. Food and friends: Always a winning combination.

Mark, Chetan, Kaye, Kristie, Nancy, Atef, Mike

Allen, Nancy, Chetan

We laughed. A lot!



To complete our fiesta, Dana and Atef brought a giant pinata. Atef found a nail over the french doors, he decided it was the perfect place for it. Yes, I let him hang a piñata between GLASS doors, and thought it was a good idea when they found my mag light to use as a piñata beater-upper. I see now why they refilled my wine glass for me so often earlier in the evening. Ilaiy went first:


Then Mike:

Atef went next, and finished off the game. Here's live footage of Atef The Pinata Killer that Marcy-Momo posted on YouTube:



Shocking, isn't it? Here's one of me wearing a piece of the leftover carnage:


And, after stuffing ourselves with candy, those that were left retired to the sunroom and talked until the wee hours of the morning. Well, some of us talked, while others just...listened.


We had a great time, but, as I told Momo later, it would have been impossible to throw a lousy party with such good company. We'll miss that Ilaiy boy, but he promises to fly back and visit us frequently.

Ah, the midwest. Corn, corn, corn, corn, beans, corn, corn, corn. Some find it terribly tiresome. Dull. Still, there are days, like today, when the view is quite scenic.

DaBomb: The Final Answer

My friend and near-constant companion, Ilaiy, is moving to California. Rats. We've been steadfast buddies for a couple of years now (you met his mother, Rani, in an earlier post), and he lives down the street from me. We have gravitated towards dining together most nights; no sense in cooking for one in both houses.

Everyone in our lil' circle can verify that Ilaiy likes his food spicy. I mean HOT. He cooks nothing that doesn't have green chilies, thai chilis, dried red pepper, and red pepper powder in it. Not 1 of the 4—ALL FOUR. I've had to stand in the hallway of his apartment to catch my breath on more than one occasion. I'm pretty sure I've developed an immunity to pepper spray as a result of knowing him—hey! Let's find out!

When we eat out, "make it HOT" is a standard request, and more often than not, I cringe when he calls the poor waiter back, and politely tells them, "this isn't hot." They commence to finding pepper and oils and anything with lava in it, while he declares, "still not hot" until I get fed up and tell him to knock it off. "They've adjusted their cuisine for the midwestern palate, dahlink. Give 'em a break, it's as hot as they got."

A couple weeks ago, we trekked up to Chicago for some last minute shopping. After walking all day, I dragged him into Heaven on Seven for a bloody mary. He ordered coffee, we sat at the bar and split a bowl of gumbo.

Here's a pic of the owner of Heaven on Seven, Jimmy Bannos (that I nabbed from their website). Please note the number of bottles in the background. Those are hot sauces.


Our gumbo was served with a six-pack of sauces on the side. At Ilaiy's request, the bartender pointed out the hottest of the lot. Par for the course, Ilaiy called him back, "this isn't hot." "Great," I was thinking, "one billion bottles of sauce in this place, and Ilaiy is going to declare each and every one of them wussy-hot."

But no. The bartender, obviously thinking, "I'm going to shut thus mo-fo up" pulled a secret weapon from wizard-y, apothecary-esque case. A little black bottle. When he removed the lid it POOF'ed, and a red cloud flew over our heads. "THIS is hot," he told Ilaiy. I like hot sauce myself, but even I knew to pass on this one. Be afraid, be very afraid.

He gave Ilaiy a coffee stirrer and a few saltine crackers, warning him not to screw up our gumbo until he tasted it. Ilaiy laughed: HA! He used the stick to spread the black—yes! black!—tarlike sauce across a cracker and moved to pop it in his mouth. The bartender caught his wrist, "No." He opened another cracker, touched the tip of it onto the cracker Ilaiy had prepared. "Now."

Ilaiy ate the second cracker.

He shrugged.

"Not hot." he said. Proudly, I think.

The bartender smiled.

We waited.

Ilaiy's next question was "Can I get a glass of water?"

And then, "this IS hot, oh, it is!" Glug, glug, glug, glasses of water were being down one after another. He was out of his freakin mind trying to dissipate the heat. He poured every packet of sugar down his throat. He pulled off his glasses and wiped his eyes. Sweat poured down his face, and he proclaimed his tongue completely numb, and a hole burned through his cheek where he'd accidentally touched the hot sauce to his face.

I present to you: The Hot Sauce That Put Ilaiy Under The Table:


I did some research on The Final Answer.

First of all, the heat in a pepper is measured by "Scoville Units," a scale developed by Wilbur Scoville in 1912. According to chemsoc.org,

The original Scoville test asked a panel of tasters to state when an increasingly dilute solution of the pepper no longer burned the mouth. Roughly one part per million of chilli 'heat' rates as 1.5 Scoville units.

Whatever. Here's a more comprehensive comparison:

A jalapeño pepper has 5000 scoville units.

A habañero, the hottest available pepper, has 300,000 scoville units.

DaBomb: The Final Answer has 1,500,000 scoville unites.

The recipes advise using one drop off of a toothpick to flaver an entire meal. 2 ounces of the stuff will run you about $40. I calculated that to be $2560.00/gallon.

That's a lot of money for a food product in which "Danger" and "Warning" are words used in the advertisement. No wonder they named the stuff after "Who Wants to Be a Millionaire?" They will be, after selling 400 gallons.

In the end, we didn't buy it. We left the restaurant with Ilaiy still sweating buckets, and exclaiming "That was great!" as if he'd just gone bungee-jumping.

He won't admit it, but I suspect the real Final Answer hit him the next morning.

Bedside Manner?

I took my mother to the doctor yesterday. I have mentioned before that she's in the beginning stages of Alzheimer's. She functions well with most things, but struggles with anything requiring a number. As she doesn't drive anymore, my sister and I make sure she's happy and gets where she needs to go.

She has a couple of suspicious spots on her face, and one on her hand. Her regular doctor, whom we love, is on medical leave, so we had to make an appointment with a new doctor.

The new doctor walked into the examination room 90 minutes after the appointment was scheduled. I had actually tired of waiting that long, and opened the door to find her standing in it. I said, "Oh, you're right here!" and she said "uh huh" and stood there continuing to read, not saying hello, introducing herself, or otherwise acknowledging us.

She then walked in and suggested that Mom's blood pressure was a bit on the high side, saying that we might need more medicines.

Never having met her, not knowing what information she had in her hands, I asked her if she had it down that that Mom is already taking blood pressure meds. "I KNOW," she said, "that's why I said MORE instead of SOME."

Her tone was unmistakeable: she all but added, "you dumb bitch" to the end of her sentence.

My intentions were to make sure that all communication with concern with Mom's meds and health care were clear, and she was cold and rude about it. Does she forget that I pay HER?

I'm not paying her to talk to me or my mother like that, that's for sure. She offered to either send Mom to a dermatologist for a biopsy, or she said she could do it herself.

I took what was behind Door #1: The dermatologist. I want someone a bit nicer, with a better bedside manner to handle my mother, especially if they're going to be cutting on her while she's awake.

What if she really is a good doctor? What if she's top of her class, and we were lucky to have gotten in to see her? How much does bedside manner account for when you're talking about potentially serious health issues? Would I rather have an asshole that knows what he's doing, or a kind idiot?

Well. The asshole of course. But those really aren't my only 2 choices. She's a family practice doctor, and there are dozens of them to choose from. They're all going to give me basically the same options. I'll just step over here and deal with the doctor that treats us with a little dignity. And that doctor can "Sit On It, Potsy."

We are amongst greatness!

Hey everybody! Our friend and fellow blogger, Wendy, (www.findingblanche.blogspot.com) is famous! She made the front page of www.dcblogs.com.

I'm cartwheels-excited, and not taking any chances that she might be too humble to tell you her ownself. Go read, and congratulate her!

Yayyyyy!!!!

Risky Bid-ness

Remember that cool house we visited while we were garage-saling? Our new friend there gave us information and invited us to an auction on Saturday.

Our first Country Auction! Friday night, we sought out advice from our sage auction-master, Don England. He gave us this advice:

"First: Go early, pick out what you like, and set a price in your mind what you'll pay. Don't go over it."

Second: Auction starts at 10:00. Don't show up at 11:00.

Second: Don't jump around and get all gleeful when your item is up. Keep a poker face about you.

Second: If you win something, make a note of it on the back of your card; keep track of what you've spent, it's easy to get caught up.

Second: The hamburgers are good. Have one."

"Don, why are there so many seconds?"

"Because they're all second to Number 1."

*****

After the farmer's market we tooled on to Jim Clingan's Auction Center in St. Joseph, IL, still not knowing what to expect. It was 91 degrees, and I was relieved to find that the auction was held in a shelter. With fans. And clean restrooms. And concessions.

We arrived 1/2 hour early and took stock. Furniture on one side of the room. Mm-hmmm. "Stuff" on the other. Amazing stuff: beautiful quilts, sets of silver. And odd stuff. This is a "lot." A "Lot" = "A box full of loot."


Yes. That IS spools of thread and used hearing aids. The tricky thing about lots is that you usually want ONE thing in the box, and have to buy the entire lot.

We followed Don's instructions: We picked out what we liked. We quizzed one another: "What's your top dollar, Dana? What's your limit, Marcy?" We were shifty-eyed, careful not to reveal what we'd be bidding on. We were snaky and ready, when the auctioneer took the stand.

*****

Have you ever been stunned, in a dark room, by a strobe light? White flashing lights, making everything appear in slow motion, rendering you totally, temporarily, disoriented from the sensory assault?

That was us yesterday; the three of us fell into a weird trance when the auctioneer began calling. You could have walked up and tapped our foreheads, and we would have fallen right over, like cows.

Bimbo Tipping. [CitySlickers: E-mail me if you don't get that joke.]

Watch this clip from Saturday morning, and you'll understand why we were taken off-guard:



This we had to learn to follow, and learn it fast, before our items came up. We had a couple of false starts. We discovered there's no discussing amongst yourselves what you should do, DURING the bidding of your item. There is no freeze-frame.

We learned from our mistakes, and had our shit together by the time our real heart's desires rolled around. We didn't smile. We were focused and shrewd. We didn't wave our arms to bid, but just lifted our chin to the auctioneer's eyes, to indicate that yes, we'd go another dollar. We were cold-blooded shysters, intent on taking home our books and umbrella stands come hell or high water.

All right, in all honesty, Marcy and I DID both bid against ourselves. Not against each other, mind you. Against OURSELVES. Marcy's books got up to $27.50, and when the $30.00 bid came 'round, she bid on that too. By God, if anyone was going to pay $30, it would be her! I did the same damned thing with my table. The auctioneer recognized us for the rookies we were, and kindly pretended not to notice. We won our books and tables and umbrella stands.

The three of us broke all auction etiquette by cheering and clapping for one another. Dana didn't buy anything, but that didn't keep her from high-fiving us for kicking some auction ass. I swear, if we'd had footballs, we would have spiked them and done the chicken dance.

It was a long, hot day. Mike and Ilaiy showed up to pack the loot:


They were efficient packers, leaving no cranny unpacked:


I came home with one table, and 4 chairs I wasn't sure I wanted (part of the lot) but might make due with. Also a brass umbrella stand filled with long-handled umbrellas, an old-timey coffee grinder (for Ilaiy), 10 copper coffee mugs engraved with someone else's monogram and an old milk jar (part of the lot). All for $50.

We were hot, dirty, and exhausted by the time we arrived home. We unloaded and followed this little sweetie's lead:


Next Auction: July 8.

We can hardly wait.

Harvest & Hugs

The Farmer's Market is really beginning to blossom. It's been fun to watch the weekly progression, from early in the year when there were more crafts than fruits and vegetables. A few more treats pop up every week, and that which sold out early a month ago is available in abundance now.

Yesterday's green-bean harvest was shocking; this booth wasn't even at the market last weekend:



Berries were popular yesterday too; the line for these yummies was verrrry long.





A weekly bouquet is in order. The proprietors of this booth are about an hour or so North of Champaign. I hope to make time to drive up and photograph their fields sometime soon; it's a trek I plan every year, and never get around to. I WILL do it this year!


The hanging baskets are breathtaking. Mine always look a bit more limp than these, no matter how much attention I give them. I'm doing something wrong, maybe these folks can give me a few tips.

This focaccia bread looked amazing, but I opted for a delicious cookie bar called "Kermit's Hermit." The older couple at this table have a van-full of pastries, cakes, and home-made breads. The label on their baked goods gives a home address, and I wonder about their at-home assembly line. Are they just baking and baking and baking in their own home for 2 days before the market? Shouldn't I just have asked them this before I wrote about them? I'll get the scoop next week.


And look, we ran into one of my best friends, Diane! Di is one of those best friends that "best friends" doesn't sum up the friendship appropriately enough. We met 25 years ago, working in a printing factory, and didn't like one another at ALL. Despite the fact that she didn't much care for me, one day she stepped up and rescued me from a tyrant, and we've been tight ever since. We're both putting our new homes in order, she works nights and weekends, and we don't see each other as much as we'd like to.

We ran into her yesterday, and she immediately had us in stitches regaling a tale from the night before, of her crawling into bed with a good book and a bag of goldfish crackers. She was reading and nibbling away only to find herself and her bedsheets covered with nearly-microscopic sized bugs...that were pouring out of her cracker bag. She was still a bit traumatized, so we comforted her by...laughing and laughing.

Di showed us a necklace she picked up at the market, and we insisted she wear it. Here's Marcy fastening it for her:



I also ran into my best-friend-in-high-school's mother, and gave and received a few hugs from her before we parted.

Good food, beautiful harvest, great friends. Who wouldn't crawl out of bed on a Saturday morning for all that?